Valor
by thelittleboffin
Summary: Even though most despised him, District Twelve's civilians seemed to be watching his every move with expressions of grief, of sympathy, of anguish. He wouldn't get a salute; in fact, he probably wouldn't get much of anything, besides an overwhelming amount of pity. But that's what everyone gets when they are forced to take part in the games. Johnlock. Sherlock/The Hunger Games
1. The Lady In Pink

A/N: I've always wanted to write a Sherlock/Hunger Games Crossover, so I guess I finally did.  
I will try to update as frequently as possible. Please leave a review ~ critiques or compliments are always welcome.

* * *

 **Chapter I: Lady In Pink**

* * *

He could leave. And he'd probably make it too. He could run. He could run and run and run and run and take his bow and arrows with him, and hunt things to survive, and be on his own, away from tedious people and the horrors of sentiment and emotion and the ever-present constant worry that one day – one day – he, or someone he knew, would be reaped.

He'd tried once. He'd grabbed his old, worn down, green backpack, shoved some bread and cheese into it, stalked out into the woods, snatched up his bow and arrow from its hiding place within the hollow of a fallen tree, and ran. He ran and didn't once look back; he just left – as quickly as a finger snap, he left.

And then he stopped running, fell to his knees and shook his head, disappointed in himself, angry at his stubborn mind, at his thoughts, at his bloody emotions. He didn't want to care, he didn't want to worry, and he didn't want to _think_. And Sherlock Holmes loved to loved to think about the science behind things, he loved to think about what he observed, what he saw in the people mindlessly roaming his district. He loved to think.

But today, all he could think about was _death_.

And even Sherlock Holmes, a man – still just a boy, really – who claimed to be void of all emotion, who claimed to detest sentiment, could not help but feel at least an inch of fear at the announcement of the reaping for the 74th Annual Hunger Games.

"Sherlock!" A voice called out enthusiastically from behind him as he walked along a bare trail back to his small home in District 12, where he already knew his mother and brother would be impatiently waiting for him.

Without needing to glance over his shoulder, Sherlock cleared his throat and huffed, "Molly."  
He heard her soft footsteps as she quickly jogged up next to him, joining in a steady pace by his side.

On a normal day, Sherlock Holmes would roll his eyes when he saw her rosy cheeks, her, practically, glowing hazel eyes, and her perfectly pulled back, brown ponytail. But today? Today, he could tolerate her. He wanted to tolerate her, because Molly Hooper was the same age as he, and Molly Hooper would be going to the reaping too. And Molly Hooper's name could be drawn and he'd never see her again, besides the occasional glimpse throughout scenes that would flicker seemingly endlessly across a wide screen hologram, entertaining the Capitol. And – _little thing like her_ – he'd probably be watching her die.

"You ready?" Molly asked, her voice hushed as though she were attempting to whisper, but remained unsure of herself.

"Ready to watch some purple-haired, fake eyelash-wearing Capitol slave draw a slip of paper from a glass dome and hope they don't say my name?" Sherlock scoffed, turning to glare at the small girl at his side, hoping she realized just how moronic she was being with such an obvious question.

Molly ducked her head in embarrassment and let out a small chuckle, her cheeks burning far more red than usual as she slowly nodded, "Yeah, neither am I."

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat and dropped his eyes to the gravel beneath his feet, kicking a stone with the toe of his ugly, tattered brown boots.  
He wasn't sure what to say. If he were to say something now, it would be sentimental. And he couldn't be sentimental. He couldn't. Not when he was about to start preparing for the reaping. He couldn't give in to sentiment _now,_ of all times _._

"What if, one day," Molly began, smiling as she gazed blankly up into the sky, "they all stopped watching?"

Sherlock whirled to face her, dark curls bouncing across his forehead as he watched her curiously, skeptically, "What?"

"You know," She shrugged, turning to look back at him, frowning at his confused expression, "what if all the districts just decide to stop watching? If no one watches, they don't have a game, right?"

With an amused and somewhat bitter laugh, Sherlock glanced away from her, observing their surroundings, small homes and dying trees, before answering her with a shake of his head, "That'll never happen."

"Maybe," She continued, grinning now at the blissful thought, a thought so ridiculous it was relatable to the idea of paradise, "But what if it did? What if we never had another reaping again? What if we could grow old, and have kids and not have to worry about sending them off to die?"

Molly smiled further and then peered over at Sherlock, whose expression was unreadable, a mask forcing his true emotion, his desire for such a reality, into secrecy. She stared for a while, before the smile slipped from her face and morphed into a strangely apologetic expression, eyes growing wide as they fixated on Sherlock's own.

"Oh, no. Sorry," She stammered, shaking her head, ponytail flinging in every direction, "I didn't mean _we_ would have kids, I just meant –"

Sherlock Holmes lifted a dismissive hand to shush her, and Molly Hooper instantly froze, moving instead to simply gnaw on her own lip, nerves kicking in as they continued to walk side by side, only a few yards away from Sherlock's house now.

With a sigh, his small home coming into view, he turned to the small girl of whom had been his rather loquacious walking partner, and stopped walking, shrugging his shoulders her way before grunting, "I'm never having kids."

And that was the honest truth. Sherlock Holmes knew he would never fall in love. He knew he would be a terrible father. He also knew that he surely wouldn't voluntarily put himself into a situation of which held, and relied on, so much… _emotion._

Molly's brow furrowed, expression a mix between pity and confusion, "Not ever?"

With a soft quirk of his lips, and a gentle nod of his head in her direction, Sherlock Holmes sauntered over to his door and grabbed hold of the handle, yanking the small house's entrance open with ease, "Goodbye, Molly."

She smiled sadly and watched him slowly disappear into his uncomfortably small home before quickly calling out, " _Wait!"_

With a slow turn on the back of his heel, Sherlock poked his head out the door, arching a brow in suspicion, curious as to why she was holding him up, "What?"

She glanced down at the ground, then in another direction completely, before gazing directly at him, eyes bright with worry, lips quivering just slightly, "How many times is your name in there?"

Sherlock lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck and sighed, shaking his head; angry with himself as he thought of all the extra rations he'd added to his list. He had painfully decided to do so in order to aid his ill mother. Without what he did, she'd be long dead.

 _But_ , Sherlock couldn't help but selfishly think, _perhaps now_ , because of what he did, _he'd be the one dying_. And who could possibly save _him?_

Sighing deeply, he turned to Molly Hooper, that small girl he'd known for three good years, and uttered, "Forty two." He watched her expression fall in anguish, her eyes revealing her heartbreak, her mind most likely taunting her with an image of his face in the sky and a canon sounding in the distance. He scoffed, turning away from her, unable to tolerate the sadness in the downward curve of her lips, the pitiful regret in her gaze. _Sentiment_ , he thought irritably.

He ducked inside the confines of his small house, slamming the door behind him, whispering to himself bitterly, "I guess the odds _aren't_ in my favor."

It was Redbeard who greeted him first when he stumbled into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him, and tossing his tattered backpack onto his uncomfortably small cot. The Irish setter placed his paws on his knees and attempted to climb him like a tree as he struggled to stay balanced. He chuckled and smiled down at his best friend, the only one he had, and kneeled to his level, scratching beneath his chin and behind his ears. He'd found the dog at a young age, skinny and scrawny, bones revealing themselves in places they shouldn't, hungry and weak and a bag of molting fur. He had taken him in, cared for him, much to his family's disapproval, even applying for tesserae a few times to help ensure that the dog would eventually grow stronger, in secret of course. The setter had become family to him and he spent more time in Redbeard's company, than the company of his own kind.

Sometimes Sherlock wished he was a dog, then, at least, he wouldn't have to worry about the stupid games or other hateful people. He could just… _be.  
_ With a small smile, he gave the dog a gentle kiss on the nose, chuckling in spite of himself, "Lucky mutt."

* * *

The clothes he was given to wear to the reaping were ridiculous. They were itchy, and plain, and painfully dull, and he hated Mycroft for laying them out for him.

 _Fortunate bastard._ He had long since escaped the reaping, turning twenty-four just last month, seven years Sherlock's elder. He'd made it. All those years, a possible participant in the Hunger Games, and not once had his name been called. Sherlock hoped to be just as lucky.

Sherlock leaned downward, reaching for the flannel that would complete his horrid outfit for today's mandatory occasion, dragging the itchy fabric over his lean torso. He wasn't anything nice to look at, or, at least, that's how he saw himself.

He was pale and skinny, and his arms and legs were too long, too lanky. His fingers were thin and spindly, and the dark curls atop his head were messy and a pain to put in place. His eyes were of a freakish nature; green, blue, silver, and gold all mixing to form some strange, brightly contrasting hue. He was different, both mentally and physically, and those around him knew so.

Most loathed him; they hated that he spoke his mind, that he could deduce all their secrets, that he could see what others could not. And he hated them right back. Because he didn't need friends, or companions, or a love interest, for God's sake. _No._ He didn't need _anyone._ Not in an era where children had to kill other children, where districts despised one another in an act to please the Capitol and its multicolored mutants.

 _"Sherlock,"_ His brother's irritable, sharp-toned voice called out from behind his bedroom door, "Are you ready?"

Why was everyone asking him that today? Who, in their right mind, would ever be ready for a single reaping?

Rolling his eyes, he reached for the handle and yanked open the door, revealing his tall, blank-faced older brother, of whom stood just in front of him. His stance was as straight as a rod; back curved for proper posture, nose pointed upward, dark eyes fixated on his little brother's bored expression. With a groan, Sherlock pushed past him, unwilling to listen to any of his lectures – lectures he was sure he would have to suffer through during the entirety of their walk to the district's center, where the reaping would be taking place. He made his way through the corridor toward his home's exit, the soft thump of both his brother's and his mother's footsteps following just behind him.

And if footsteps could sound sad, he was sure they would sound like that.

Just before ducking out the door, Sherlock passed Redbeard, sleeping soundly on a sheet of fabric, something he'd traded a squirrel for in the black market. Allowing a final smile to grace his lips, Sherlock approached the dog, stroked his ears, and kissed the soft fur just beneath his closed eye. When he pulled back, the hound was gazing curiously at him, his tail wagging as Sherlock whispered softly, "Goodbye, Redbeard."

It wasn't the first time he'd gone through a tearful farewell with the setter. He did it just before every reaping. Because he never knew which one would be his last. Sighing, Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment, swallowed stiffly, and turned away from his best friend, dashing past his family members and back down the hall towards the exit.

He trudged through the open door and into the outdoor world, of which was a sad, dreary setting, everything gray and brown. His mother and brother pursued him onto the trail he'd been walking along only an hour before, beside Molly and her ridiculous thoughts, theories, fantasies.

Sometimes the dusty path to the district square would be warmed by the summer sun.  
Sometimes it would be covered in icy snow, cold and threatening, a wasteland of sickness and shivers.

It was so hard to believe, when the sun was shining over its poor homes and people, just how dangerous District 12 became in the wintertime. He remembered tugging his jacket tighter around himself as he hiked back home after a discretely unsuccessful trip to the woods, a dreadfully cold wind caressing his cheeks and hugging tightly to his weak bones. He remembered thinking he wouldn't be strong enough to make it back, back to his mother, back to Mycroft, no matter how much he hated him, or back to Redbeard. But somehow he did, and his mother yelled at him for ten minutes straight, threw an orange blanket at him, and made him some soup with the few herbs and vegetables they had left.

He had felt guilty – putting his mother through so much worry, eating up what little food they had.  
He had cried that night with Redbeard's head in his lap.

But he never told anyone. And he never would.  
Because Sherlock Holmes didn't show emotions.  
Because Sherlock Holmes didn't _feel_.

"Sherlock," His brother's voice beckoned for his attention, and Sherlock sighed as he felt his sibling's presence beside him – an unwanted, unnerving, unsettling presence.

"What could you possibly have to say to me right now, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped at the man, eyes burning in frustration, his desire to growl and scream all at once not going unnoticed by the being next to him.

"I'm not entirely sure," Mycroft uttered with a sigh, eyes dropping to his feet, expression bleak.

"Do shut up then," Sherlock snapped and stared straight ahead, his surroundings falling more familiar as they grew closer and closer to the Hall of Justice.

Silence hung between the two of them, besides the ever-present chirping of nearby birds, the chatter of people resounding from the district's center square, and the sniffles emanating from their mother sauntering patiently behind them.

"Do you have it?" Mycroft mumbled softly, loud enough for only Sherlock to hear.

The younger brother swallowed, hand reaching into the pocket of his trousers and fingering the gold surface of his father's pin, something he kept close to him each and every day, a memory of who he was – of why he couldn't give up.

"I always have it," He whispered back, eyes shutting for a mere moment as he turned his face from Mycroft's line of sight, desperately eager to keep his brother from seeing the pain and fear marring his expression.

"Good," His older sibling nodded, gazing off ahead of him toward the center square, now completely in view, children and teenagers basically stumbling into one another as they slowly got into place for the reaping.

Sherlock scoffed, _"Good?"_ He shook his head, annoyed with himself, "It's _sentiment."_

Mycroft grabbed his arm, whirling his entire body to face him, his eyes sharp and serious, beating into Sherlock's shocked gaze. "It isn't meant to symbolize _sentiment,_ Sherlock," His older brother told him, his features falling to form a look of utter rage and fury, "It's to pose as a _reminder."_

Sherlock arched a brow, attempting to tug his arm from Mycroft's grip, but failing, "A reminder of _what_ exactly?"

"A reminder that you are human," Mycroft leaned back and dropped his arm, glancing away from Sherlock's confused expression, and turning instead to glare at the boys and girls crowding together before the Hall of Justice, "And so are they."

With that he took off in the direction of the rest of the families, calling his mother along with him, of whom sent Sherlock a tearful nod, her features wet and salty with liquid heartbreak. She cried every time. Sherlock was used to it at this point.

And then, within a mere moment, Sherlock was alone.

Gulping nervously, he joined the line of participants, observing each of them separately, noticing how the older one's simply looked bored as they went through the usual routine, and how the younger one's lifted their hands hesitantly, allowing the Peacekeepers to draw blood with a quick prick to the finger, the small being's trembling and shivering as they watched with horror. Sherlock followed, wincing as at the sharp needle jabbed into the delicate skin, all while staring into the dark mask of the Peacekeeper before him, the white being like some sort of machine in the eyes of the people.

 _"Next,"_ The man snapped at him, and Sherlock glared whilst stepping forwards, slowly finding his place in the line up of children and teenagers.

He gazed blankly, emotionlessly at the bare stage before him, at the two domes that would ultimately decide his fate, at the number of 12 to 18-year-olds surrounding him.

 _She still wets the bed, his mother just died from the flu, her brother was killed in the mines, she's terrified because her name is in there far too many times than she's comfortable with._ _Everyone, everywhere, in white and grey. Innocence, fear, outrage._ _Too much, too much, too much._

Sherlock inhaled deeply and slowly ran his hand down into his pocket, pulling out the small pin he held so dear to his heart. Mycroft had given it to him when he had turned twelve, telling him to never lose it, to never give it away, to never show it to anyone because it was his and his alone. It was bronze, lacking in shine because of age, bearing the engraving of a bumblebee atop it, its wings outstretched, every detail of its tiny body easily seen to a keen eye.

Mycroft had told him that it was his father's a long time ago, before he had died in a tragic mining accident when Sherlock was just six years old. His older brother also told him that the bumblebee represents personal power. He informed Sherlock that so long as he held the little pendant close to him he would always find a way out of anything; he would always have the power to overcome his fears, his hardships, no matter the circumstances.

And so, Sherlock had never let it out of his sight, keeping it near wherever he went, whenever he went.  
It was the only thing that kept him from giving up, that reminded him that he could, in fact, defeat what terrified him.

A sound from the from of the Hall of Justice dragged Sherlock back to reality, and he quickly turned to watch a small woman, her hair a light, unidentifiable shade of lilac and pink, her magenta outfit far too bright and cheerful for such a dark occasion, clip-clop across the stage toward a microphone that sat, awaiting her. With a smile, her strawberry-shaded lips stretching outwards joyfully, she cleared her throat and gazed out among the crowd of gray and white, each and every being giving her their full attention.

"Welcome, welcome, welcome," She began merrily, her eyes bright, but not at all comforting, "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

Sherlock scoffed inwardly and rolled his eyes, all too familiar with the introduction. He gripped the bee pendant tighter in his fist, his knuckles surely white, and the metal most likely leaving marks across his palm.

"Now, before we begin, we have a very special film, brought to you all the way from the Capitol," The woman grinned, her white teeth shining in the dreary light of the sun. A picture was projected across a white screen, and dramatic music filled the unnerving silence as all eyes turned to watch.

 _War, terrible war_ , Sherlock recited quietly, sighing to himself, as the images flickering before him made the Capitol out to be some sacred paradise, all announced through the voice of President Snow, the devil himself.

Soon, but not soon enough, the film came to an end, and the pink-haired lady's voice rose up over the quiet that followed.  
"I just love that," She smiled happily, before inhaling sharply, expression falling just slightly, and Sherlock instantly braced himself.

"Now, the time has come for us to select one courageous young man and woman," She paused, glancing at the entirety of the crowd, "for the _honor_ of representing District 12 for the 74th annual Hunger Games."

She lifted her hand over the dome on Sherlock's right, and smiled casually, "As usual, ladies first."

Slowly, her painted fingernails dropped into the glass ball, reaching down, ruffling through the small, white, pristinely folded slips of paper, before yanking out the unlucky name. She lifted it slowly into the air for the crowd to see, before approaching the microphone once more, the cheerful smile still lining her features. Sherlock shut his eyes and listened.

"Abigail Hooper."

 _Fuck._

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock saw the small thirteen year old making her way out of the crowd, walking the straight, bare pathway toward the woman on the stage, her light brown hair swaying, braided neatly for the occasion, and her cheeks white, blanched in fear. Sherlock had only spoken to her a handful of times. Sometimes she joined Molly on their walks to Sherlock's house, always asking him stupid questions and pointing out little details about the weather or the trees or the birds, things Sherlock found incredibly useless. But she was nice, and kind, and far too young to die.

 _"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"_

He knew it was her before he even turned around to witness her lithe figure approaching the stage at high speed, her expression twisted in agony, her voice desperate to be heard. _Sentiment_ , he told himself as he gazed in disbelief, watching her take her sister's place, all while her younger sibling screamed her name as she was dragged off by Peacekeeper's of whom were most likely taking her to her mother somewhere in the crowd.

Sherlock cringed, because seeing Molly adorn that stage, so small and skinny and utterly fragile wasn't right. She looked so innocent, too innocent, and meek and kind, and Sherlock didn't even want to look at her anymore – because, standing here now, he realized he'd gotten attached.

He shut his eyes once more and shook his head, staring into the black abyss and simply listening.

"District Twelve's very first _volunteer_ ," The woman in pink marveled, grinning at Molly, whose face was simply frozen in both shock at her own actions and utter disbelief, "What's your name?"

Molly swallowed, staring motionlessly out at the crowd of silent onlookers, all somewhat heartbroken as they watched her utter, softly, "Molly Hooper."

"Well, I bet my hat that was your _sister_ , wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Let's have a big hand for our very first volunteer, Molly Hooper."

His eyes still closed, Sherlock merely heard the shuffling of arms lifting quietly, and he instantly knew what they were doing.  
They were saluting her, wishing her luck, raising their fingers in recognition.

Sherlock kept his hands at his sides.

"And now, for the boys."

His heart skipped a beat, thumping loudly in his ears as he listened, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter, eagerly wishing he could block out every noise, every breath. He bit the side of his cheek, and swallowed, hearing the woman's hand drop into the glass dome for the final time today, hearing her fingers shuffling through every slip of paper, hearing her finally choose one specifically as everyone and everything fell still.

His fist clenched around the bronze bee.

 _Forty-two times. Personal power. Forty-two times. Personal power.  
Forty-two, forty-two, forty-two. Redbeard. Personal Power.  
District Twelve in the wintertime. Forty-two. Molly. Forty-two.  
_

 _Bees._

 _Forty-two._

"William _Sherlock_ Scott _Holmes_."

His blood ran cold the second he opened his eyes, the cold color of his irises gazing out at the many faces watching his every move. As though in a trance, his body moved forwards, his too-big, button-up flannel swaying just slightly in the warm breeze, as he made his way toward the stage, every single step he took simply forgotten to his mind, to his emotions. He hiked the stairs one by one, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring as he gnawed on his bottom lip, some kind of nervous tick he'd suddenly just developed. Soon, he was face to face with the small pink lady who put a gentle hand on his shoulder, guiding him into place on the stage, and turning him so that he could gaze out at the crowd before him.

Even though most despised him, District Twelve's civilians seemed to be watching his every move with expressions of grief, of sympathy, of anguish.

Somehow, he found Mycroft's eyes in the back of the crowd, glaring at him blankly, not a single emotion betraying his ever-present mask.

He wouldn't get a salute; in fact, he probably wouldn't get much of anything, besides an overwhelming amount of pity.  
But that's what everyone gets when they are forced to take part in the games.

Just _pity._

"There we are," The woman next to him announced blissfully, "Our tributes from District Twelve."

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat, his features blank, motionless.

"Well, go on you two," The pink lady encouraged, "shake hands."

Sherlock glanced to the side, glimpsing at Molly's sorrowful and somber expression, watching as she took a few steps towards him, hand outstretched, awaiting the comfort of his own. He blinked, turned and placed his palm on hers, unable to keep his fingers from trembling, or his face from paling. Hooper quirked a small smile, of which was meant to console his empty features as she dropped his hand, and took a step back, returning to her original place beside the lady in pink.

"Happy Hunger Games!" The Capitol woman exclaimed once again, "And may the odds be ever in your favor."

And then Sherlock was being rushed through the main doors of the Hall of Justice, Molly beside him, pushed by Peacekeepers, his entire being moving like a zombie, unaware, too overcome by shock and despair and anger.

And then it dawned on him.

 _Obvious_ , he supposed.

He'd never had much luck with anything anyway.


	2. Numb

A/N: Here's chapter two! Thank you for the reviews! 3  
Please shoot me some more!

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Chapter II: Numb

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Three minutes was an enormous amount of time for Sherlock Holmes.

In three minutes, he could decipher just whom the thief was that kept stealing the bread from the bakery tucked away near the district's center.  
In three minutes, he could lull Redbeard to sleep with a couple scratches behind the ear and a few strokes across his eyes and cheeks.  
In three minutes, he could sing his favorite song.  
In three minutes, he could sneak his way out of the district's borders and into the woods.  
In three minutes, Sherlock Holmes could do a lot of things.

What he couldn't do, however, is say goodbye to the only family he had left.

His mother had entered first, of course. She had hobbled towards him as fast as she could, throwing her arms around his neck, running her fingers through his hair, and kissing his forehead, all while fat tears rolled down both of her red, swollen cheeks, staining Sherlock's skin with salt and devastation. It had been hard to reassure her, to tell her he would try to win, try to make it home so he could see her again.

Usually, he had quite the skill for lying, and this was no exception.

And his mother had seemed relieved for a moment, nodding her head, telling him he had just as equal a chance as any of the other competitors. He knew he didn't. District One and Two had participants who volunteered because they _wanted_ to, because they had trained their entire life for the Games, because they craved the thrill of victory, the praise that comes with being in charge of each and every act of murder they commit.

 _Sure_ , maybe Sherlock had more intellect than the whole of them combined, but without physical strength, he was a dead man. Sure, he could shoot an arrow, and his aim was near perfect, but his skinny arms and legs would only take him so far before he would ultimately be gunned down, or pummeled into the ground.

His mother had her head in the clouds, he had decided.

And when the Peacekeeper had told her that her time was up, his mother had nodded solemnly, touched his hand, and given him a kiss on the cheek, whispering into his ear that she loved him with all her heart, and that no matter what happened, he would forever be her hero.

 _Didn't she get it?_

Even if he won the games, he'd never be a hero, or a winner, or a fucking _victor._  
What was it they always say? No one ever really _wins_ the games?

After she left, a knock at the door saved him from the insufferable silence of the small room he was waiting in, all on his own, locked in a metaphoric box with his mind and his imagination, an imagination of which was suddenly filled with images of his death, of him dying, over and over and over again.

"Three minutes," was uttered by one of the Peacekeepers, and when Sherlock glanced upwards toward the entrance, he saw his brother standing by the door, face blank and brows furrowed, still dressed in his classy, mandatory clothing as though prepared and ready for another reaping.

He thought about the idea of never seeing the man before him again – his sibling – and so, within an instant, Sherlock was cataloguing the dark shade of his eyes, the wrinkles on his forehead, the thin shape of his lips, and the plump form of his nose. This was the man he'd grown up with, beside, next to; this was the man who taught him about the dangers of sentiment after their father died, and the man that told him love was simply a disadvantage to those who held onto it. And this was the man who was approaching him with no hints emotion revealed in the depths of his expression, his eyes sharp and concentrated, the corners of his mouth curved downward.

"Redbeard?" Sherlock murmured questioningly.

Mycroft shook his head, "He's not allowed in."

Sherlock nodded and looked down.

"I take it Mummy was a sappy mess," Mycroft stated, so very nonchalantly, as though her sobbing all over Sherlock's cheeks and shoulders was ridiculous and utterly unnecessary.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded and stood awkwardly before his brother, fingers sliding over the face of the bee pin in his pocket, just as they had before, "Then again she had every right to be."

Mycroft turned and stared at him then, and for a moment Sherlock was sure he saw something in that lifeless gaze. Something kind, something determined, and something furious. But then his older brother glanced downward, glaring intricately at the floor as though it had wronged him in some way, and Sherlock was left questioning the emotions he'd just seen flicker across his older sibling's features.

They were silent for what felt like ages, and he loathed it – he loathed that they were spending the three minutes they had blankly staring off into space.  
But before he could strike up a conversation, Mycroft cleared his throat and met his eyes.

"I expect you to _win_ ," His brother uttered, entire expression serious, stoic and unmoving.

Sherlock couldn't help but scoff, the sound that escaped him bitter and harsh, but he didn't care. He had thought more of Mycroft; he had thought him smart, a right genius, perhaps even smarter than he, but here he was thinking up fantasies and expecting the impossible.

"You've got to be joking," Sherlock pressed, brows raised in disbelief, but when his brother shook his head, they lowered in disappointment, "Honestly, Mycroft, you of all people should know better."

"No, Sherlock," His brother started and suddenly there was a hand on the collar of Sherlock's shirt, yanking him forward, roughly and forcefully, "I, of all people, believe that you have a chance. You just need to get your bloody head out of your arse."

And with that, Mycroft shoved him backwards, glowering his way as he stumbled to reclaim his balance.

Sherlock swallowed and glared, appalled, taken aback by his brother's actions and words. He watched, scowling, as his older sibling sighed and shook his head once more, glancing off somewhere unknown, most likely retreating into his mind for something else to say.

Sherlock decided he didn't want to listen anymore.

"I'm a bloody _seventeen year old_ from District _Twelve,_ Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, staring intently at the floor, acknowledging each and every detail, each crack in the wood panels, each lonely crevice where they met, "I can shoot a rabbit with a bow and arrow, sure. I can build traps, I can track, I can climb a tree. Good, yeah, _great_. That'll all really help me win." His words were dripping with sarcasm as he frowned, furious with himself and his abilities.

Mycroft lifted his head and sighed, "Humans are no different from animals. If you can shoot a rabbit, surely you can shoot a tribute."

Sherlock chuckled bitterly, "Yeah, I probably could. But that's not the point, is it? I won't be quick enough to dodge the other's attack. They'll kill me before I even pull back the arrow."

"Have more confidence in yourself, Sherlock. For God's _sake_ ," Mycroft snapped, eyes burning as the entirety of his expression sat uncomfortably on the edge of rage.

" _Why?_ Why should I?" Sherlock growled back, taking a step closer to his brother, eager to prove his point, to prove that he didn't have a chance. He just wanted someone else to admit it already – he didn't want to be brave, he didn't want to think that he could win because then that would mean he would have to try. And what if he tried, what if he really tried, and then he failed? What if he killed dozens of tributes and then died with only one more left? They were stupid thoughts, but he couldn't stop thinking them.

"Because, _William,_ " His brother uttered, and suddenly, within a mere instant, he had all of Sherlock's attention, every last bit, "The Games aren't just about physical strength." Mycroft let out a deep breath and shut his eyes momentarily, "With a mind like yours, you have the ability to outsmart everyone. And I expect you to."

The door to the small room they stood in flew open and the white, familiar figure, poked his head inside, moving to face them, "Time."

Mycroft blinked, swallowed, and nodded his head, turning his back to his little brother as he took a few steps forward, sauntering toward the exit. Before he disappeared behind the door the Peacekeeper was impatiently holding open, Mycroft glanced over his shoulder and murmured, "Remember what I told you earlier." And then his eyes dropped once to the hand Sherlock had tucked away in his pocket, bronze bee held tight within his fist, before he was ushered out the door by the man in white.

Sherlock swallowed as he watched the last of his family leave him.

 _A reminder that you are human, and so are they._

* * *

The next time Sherlock Holmes saw Molly Hooper they were sitting on a train together. A fancy one at that, with chandeliers and glass tables and regal chairs. Everything was a different color; everything was dark, and touched by mahogany and expensive décor. Everything was so abnormal, so different, so unusual to him. He hated it. He hated that he had to sit down, next to Molly bloody Hooper, the sweetest, kindest girl in District Twelve, and listen to the lady in pink, of whom he had learned was named Effie Trinket, blab on and on about how wonderful they would be treated and how much they had to enjoy on their trip to the Capitol and how fast the train was going.

 _Two hundred miles per hour and you can barely feel a thing._

He hated it all. And he kept repeating that little fact to himself while Molly glanced at him on occasion, studying him carefully, worry in her eyes as Effie stood up and declared she was off to find their mentor. It was silent in the rather overtly large train car, and Sherlock gazed out the window, glaring at the trees and shrubs and land as it whooshed by like lightning on a stormy night.

His heart ached.  
He missed Redbeard.  
 _Sentiment. Attachment. Love._

Fuck it all. It didn't _matter_ anymore.  
Not after the next few days.  
Not after the Games.

"Sherlock?" Molly's timid voice sounded from beside him, but he remained cold and still, his face turned away from her line of sight, his eyes fixated on the square shape of the train window.

He didn't want to talk. He didn't feel like talking. He wouldn't talk. Not yet.  
Why should he? Why should he do anything anymore?  
For God's sake, he just sounds like a stubborn, insubordinate, pesky teenager.

"Look, I know you're upset, but–"

 _"Upset?"_ He snapped, "I'm not _upset."_

Molly froze and narrowed her eyes, "You're not?"

"No," Sherlock muttered.

"Then what are you?"

"I –" He stopped, because he didn't know. He didn't know if he was angry, or sad, or nervous. He didn't know. He didn't know anything because this – this – was about emotion. And Sherlock Holmes didn't understand emotion, or, at least, he assumed he didn't. He hated not knowing.

"I'm," He paused and glanced down at his hands, of which rested in his lap, intertwined and utterly still, _"numb."_

Before Molly could comment, much to his own gratitude, the entrance to their particular train car opened and a rather ragged, rough looking man entered, his long blonde hair greasy and his stubble uncared for. His white shirt, of which hid beneath a gray vest, was untucked, and his matching gray trousers were old, and baggy. He looked, in Sherlock's opinion, like he didn't have enough stamina to care for himself.

 _Laziness_ , Sherlock concluded.

Or – oh. Of _course._ _Obvious. Alcohol._

The first thing the man did was approach the decanter, fill his empty class, and then take a rather large sip, as though he'd be desperate to quench his thirst. The second thing he did was turn to face the two of them, his tributes, his students, the two teenagers he would have to teach his ways and then watch helplessly as they died on the battlefield. Sherlock couldn't even imagine how they looked – surely, not promising at all. He was slouched downwards in the soft cushion of one of the train's sofa chairs, his white button-up shirt now wrinkled, his black slacks covering the whole of his long legs, of which were spread out in front of him. His fancy dress shoes were getting to be rather uncomfortable, and his curls had fallen from their perfectly smooth-backed form, falling atop his forehead rather messily. He looked unforgivable; he wasn't sure what Haymitch – their mentor – could possibly think of him. Molly didn't really look like a victor, but at least she was sitting upwards, a bright smile on her face, posture ramrod straight.

"Hi, I'm Molly. Molly Hooper," She began, so enthusiastically it made Sherlock's stomach hurt.  
She extended a hand toward the blonde man, but he simply glared at it and took a quick sip of his drink.

"I know who you are," He uttered, sighing as if she were boring him, or, merely, annoying.

"Right," Her smile falter – just a little, "So, when do we start?"

"Whoa," He scoffed, shaking his head and gripping his drink tighter, knuckles turning white, "So eager. Most of you aren't in such a hurry."

Molly blinked, swallowed, glanced at Sherlock, turned back to Haymitch, and then shrugged, "But you're our mentor, aren't you supposed to teach us, about sponsors, and strategies and the like?"

"Fine," He responded, sneaking in a sip of his drink before continuing, "Embrace the probability of your imminent death. And know, in your heart, that there's nothing I can do to save you."

Sherlock almost laughed at his words, but kept his amusement to a minimum – judging by the terrified look on Molly's face, now would not be a good time to giggle. So instead, Sherlock glanced away from the exchange and back out the window, figuring that if Haymitch wouldn't be of any help, what was the point of paying attention any longer?

"So, why are you here then?" Molly squeaked from beside him.

"The refreshments," Haymitch replied, and, as if on cue, took a sip of whatever the hell it was that he was drinking.

Sherlock continued to listen even as the door to the train car opened yet again, high-heeled shoes clip-clopping across the linoleum signifying Effie's presence among them.

"There you are," She declared, something like aggravation hidden in the tone of her voice, "Have you all met?"

Sherlock quirked a smile but let it drop within an instant, turning his head back toward Molly and Haymitch, the two of them sitting in their chairs, across from one another, Molly appearing somewhat bewildered, whilst Haymitch was staring straight at Sherlock specifically, eyes narrowed as though he were curious, or skeptical. Sherlock stared back, observing, deducing.

 _An alcoholic; hasn't been sober since his victory in the games – a little over twenty-four years ago. Had a family once – dead now. Was in love once – dead too. Drinks in order to forget – all of it_.

"More or less," Their mentor muttered, gazing sharply at Sherlock before lifting his eyes and standing from his seated position, gripping his drink close to his swaying figure, before sighing and indicating toward the car exit with a bob of his head, "I think I'm going to finish this in my room."  
And with that, he was striding away, leaving behind a stunned Molly Hooper and an exasperated Effie Trinket.

 _"Well,"_ Effie sighed, "Should I show you to your rooms?"

Molly nodded and stood, smiling wearily at Effie's friendly expression. Sherlock simply stood as well, following silently as Effie led them from the fancy room, passing the rows of cakes and different snacks and the chandeliers and the glass and gold tables.

Sherlock shook his head softly, pondering how just earlier that day he had been sitting in the woods, dreading the reaping, and now he was tribute, a possible victor, awaiting either his death, a ruthless end, or his triumph, a victorious champion of District Twelve.

In his own mind, he was fucked either way.


	3. Clueless

A/N: Reviews are enormously appreciated! You can also read this on AO3.  
Thanks for reading!

* * *

 **Chapter III: Clueless**

* * *

Mornings in District Twelve were always quiet. Sometimes a bit too quiet. To Sherlock, it always seemed as though nobody was ever happy to start the day.

Most of the time, he would wake before Mycroft or his mother. He'd get dressed in something old and tattered, and then, with Redbeard at his heels, he would sprint out of the house and into the fresh, cool breeze of the early morning. He would stroll with Redbeard through the gloomy atmosphere of a silent village, listening as the people of District Twelve slowly woke, opening their windows, making their way to work, some heading toward the mines and some to the bakeries or markets. Sherlock merely observed – what they wore, how they walked, their expressions, their voices. And Redbeard stayed beside him while he did, his head right below Sherlock's hovering hand, brushing against him every so often as if to tell his owner that he was still there, that he wasn't going anywhere.

Redbeard was his protector, his shield, his guide. And Sherlock was so grateful for it.

The first time he'd realized this – just how defensive the dog was – was a few months after he'd found the pup and fulfilled his poor health. He'd left the small cottage in which they dwelled in the early hours, as was his routine, and gone out, looking to go for a hunt, before he was stopped dead in his tracks by three boys of his age, kids he knew, kids he'd gone to school with, learned with.

He recognized them, couldn't remember their names though – probably deleted it – but he knew what he'd done to make them look at him the way they had, all glares and furious eyes, teeth bared and grins evident on their ugly features. He'd said too much, he'd deduced their secrets, embarrassed them, humiliated them. It had all been on accident, but he'd still done it. He couldn't control it. His deductions came as naturally to him as walking, or breathing, or hunting.

And now they had come for their revenge, and Sherlock was on the receiving end of it.

First, they had insulted him – called him a freak, a weirdo, an abomination, abnormal – and then they had pulled back their fists and had their fun. Across the eye, into the nose, slicing open his bottom lip, bruising his temples, yanking his hair, shoving him to ground, kicking him in the gut, stinging his ribcage, his arms, his legs, his chest. Everything hurt and then, abruptly, everything stopped. And Sherlock heard growling and snarling and suddenly the three boys standing over him were yelling and threatening something that wasn't him.

And then they were fleeing, running away, cussing under their breaths and leaving Sherlock alone, on the ground, broken and terrified.

But the warmth of a wet tongue on his eyebrow, licking at his wounds, spurring him back into reality, caused him to let out a relieved sigh. And when he looked over and saw that red-faced and floppy-eared mess gazing down at him, he knew he would be all right. He knew he had found his best friend, his protector, his defender.

Redbeard had become his sidekick, his first-mate.

And from that moment, Sherlock never had another problem with bullies, or moronic arseholes. His mother, of course, had gone berserk upon seeing his bruised face, but Sherlock had just told her it was a Peacekeeper that caught him stealing a loaf of bread. At least that way, he would seem heroic – attempting to acquire food for the family. Mycroft saw straight through him though, but, as it turned out, that was a good thing, because, in the end, it was he that persuaded his mother to keep the dog.

Redbeard's presence was one of the few constants in his life.

But _now?_

Now he was waking up in a strange room, in a far-too-large bed, disorientated and uncomfortable, without the soft feeling of Redbeard's fur between his fingers. And, unlike in District Twelve, this morning wasn't quiet.

He could hear the dinging of silverware and plates just outside his door; he could hear the faint mumbles of a consistent conversation, and the distinct sound of Molly's mousy voice. They would be expecting him. He couldn't run off into the woods with his dog and his arrows. _No_.

He couldn't run away anymore.  
And he certainly couldn't run away from the Games.

Slowly, his legs shivering slightly in the cool air of the bedroom he'd been given by Effie, he lifted himself from the mattress, pulling back the duvet as he slipped his feet from the soft cushion to the harsh, wood floor. He hadn't slept well – he hadn't expected to. First, he had tossed and turned, too many thoughts, too many ideas, and too many insinuations about what was to come and what was going to happen.

Too many, too much. Too much everything.

His mind had been whirling like the ceiling fan above him, and even when he finally shut his eyes, mere mental exhaustion capturing his very being, he was awaken by his own vigorous trembling, his own moaning, a brutal dream creating a picture out of his dangerously pessimistic thoughts. It was ridiculous – how much he was pondering the situation and every single detail included. He needed to calm down. He needed to relax; because none of his thoughts, or fantasies, or ideas would change anything.

He was still a tribute.  
He was still going to have to face the Games.  
Nothing could change that.  
Nothing _would_ change that.

 _Have more confidence in yourself, Sherlock. For God's sake._

Rolling his eyes at the memory, he approached the door to the main hall of the train, exiting the room as he placed a pale hand on the cold, metal handle. Light encircled the entirety of his figure and he suddenly felt far too exposed in the grungy white button-up he still wore, his curls a mess against his forehead, his eyes far too silver this morning. Effie had told both he and Molly that the first thing they would receive upon entering the Capitol was applause and then a makeover – new clothes, styled hair, clean-shaven bodies.

He couldn't really say he was overtly excited.

He sighed and rounded the corner of the corridor, taking in the sight of a fully-decked dining table, covered in silver plates and utensils, breads and jams, fruits and pastries, and, of course, Haymitch and Molly, the two chatting amongst themselves while munching on their breakfast – well, Molly was ravaging it rather than savoring it. He slowly made his way forwards, passing Effie of whom sat on the couch near the table, her hair still alarmingly pink, just like her outfit. She was smiling at him, brightly, genuinely happy to see him for some odd reason. He merely glared back and approached the table, eyeing a couple of the cakes. He wasn't pleased to admit he was desperately hungry. He hadn't eaten for at least two days – he'd been watching his food intake, on his mother's behalf, unwilling to allow her to worry and fret over their rather large lack in proper rations.

"You'd freeze to death first."

"But I could always make a fire. I know how."

"Good for you princess, but that's a good way to get yourself killed."

He listened intently to what was being said, as he grew closer to the table, a plate and a chair awaiting his arrival, a fork and knife laid out as well, taunting him, mocking him from afar. Sherlock didn't comment on the conversation as he reached for the chair and pulled it back, slowly sitting down, brows furrowed as he felt both Molly's and Haymitch's eyes on him.

And then, once Sherlock glanced upward and sent them both his best dead-eyed stare, they went back to chatting with one another, Molly upbeat and curious, Haymitch appearing sour and simply exasperated.

"So, how do I know when the best time to light a fire is?" The young girl asked, frowning as she watched their mentor slowly chew his food, his eyelids heavy and hair a mess.

Haymitch scoffed and let out a swift grunt of annoyance, "Sweetheart, you don't. There are never any best times or good times in the arena," He glanced at Sherlock, gave him a once over, and then turned back to Molly, "You aren't on any schedules and you have no control over what proceeds."

Haymitch sighed, and pulled his cup of coffee closer to him, lugging a small canteen of alcohol from his pocket and adding a few drops to the hot, caffeinated liquid, "You are simply given good luck and perfect opportunities. Miss one or the other and you're dead."

"Luck was how you won," Sherlock stated, confidently, his eyes flickering up from the food on his plate he had yet to taste to Haymitch, of whom was gazing at him with a smirk and skeptical, burning, blue eyes.

"He speaks," the mentor chuckled, his sights shifting toward Effie who was glowering his way, scowling as though warning Haymitch to behave. "I was beginning to think you were a mute."

"You simply got lucky. Twenty-four years ago, when it was just you and that girl left. Only minutes before you became a victor," Sherlock continued, ignoring his silly attempt to mock him.

Molly was staring wide-eyed his way, expression open and sincere as she watched Sherlock observe Haymitch, of whom reached for his cup of alcoholic coffee, downed a sip and then slammed it down atop its saucer.

"Yes, I did," Haymitch then began, "She was a career – I didn't stand a chance. But luck was on my side that day. And so," He held his arms out, gesturing towards himself with a large, conniving grin, "here I am."

Sherlock smirked, nodded and then finally – _finally_ – took a bite of one of the small, fruity pastries, his eyes shutting for a few moments to savor the taste, the way the flavor melted on his tongue. Haymitch simply watched him, a hand beneath his chin, his eyes narrowed curiously, whilst Molly swallowed nervously and continued picking at her own food.

When the silence became nearly overpowering, Haymitch sighed and looked away from Sherlock, instead choosing to turn to both of his tributes, his hands outstretched as he started up yet another conversation.

"Look, you really want to know how to stay alive?" He began, fingers intertwined atop the table's surface, "You get people to _like_ you."

Sherlock glanced upward, stopping his eating to instead stare intently at his mentor, watching him for any sign of a lie, because if what he was saying was true, Sherlock had no chance at all. As if sensing Sherlock's suspicion, Haymitch turned to him with a brow arched, one side of his mouth quirking at the corner as he tilted his head inquiringly, "Problem?

"People don't like me," Sherlock stated, uncaring as to how it sounded; whether it came out bitterly, sadly, angrily – he didn't care.  
It was the truth – it was _fact._

"I like you," Molly shrugged genuinely, smiling softly Sherlock's way.

"I like you too," Effie added from across the room, giggling quietly to herself.

Sherlock merely scowled and glanced down at his pastry, merely half of it left, awaiting his rumbling stomach. But he'd lost his appetite.

Haymitch glanced at Molly and Effie, rolling his eyes and groaning in aggravation, shaking his head to the side, "Yeah, well that won't be of much help in the arena," He turned to Sherlock then, expression serious, "That's why you make them like you, kid – you act the part, _play the fool._ "

He took a large gulp of his coffee and then placed the now empty cup on the table once more, "You get them to like you: you get Sponsors. Understood?"

Sherlock simply looked away, staring down at his hands, gazing blankly at his white fingers, so bony and slender – skeleton-like. He didn't want to act. He didn't want to play a role. Not for the people of the Capitol – not for the people that were the reason he was a tribute in the first place. _No_.

He would be himself. And he didn't care about what happened as a result of it.

When he looked up and led his complex mind away from his foolish thoughts, he caught Molly watching him, her eyes weary and cautious, as though she knew just what he was thinking and why he was thinking it. He instantly looked away, dropping his sights back down to the food still sitting utterly motionless on his plate. Of course it was, though. It was food. It wasn't like it would crawl away from him and leap out the window.

So why did he expect it to?

Maybe because everything about his life, at that moment, felt entirely surreal.

He needed to gain control over himself. He was over thinking things, reading far too deeply into the unnecessary – his far too large brain was spitting ideas at him and it needed to stop. He was Sherlock Holmes – logic and sense both served as his specialties. But now? Now, he had been reduced to a simple boy of irrational fears and speculations. _Control, control, control._

"Look!" Molly's voice cried out over his mind's vicious scolding, and she was quick to get to her feet, climbing out of her chair and scurrying over to the window, gracefully placing a small, pale hand on the glass as she gazed out at the passing setting.

The Capitol. All big buildings and metal skyscrapers. Strangely shaped homes and houses – a futuristic feel implanting itself in each and every work of architecture that made up the whole of the big city. Everything so grey and dull – contrasted by the people of the Capitol strutting around like rainbows, this way and that.

And then the tributes of District Twelve were pulling into a station, the train's wheels barely squealing as the machine slowed oh-so-carefully, zooming leisurely by crowds of multicolored heads, citizens of the Capitol cheering for them, smiling and grinning and calling out in glee. It disgusted Sherlock so very much his blood ran cold. They holler and congratulate now, and yet, when he dies in a few days, they will not be half as enthusiastic.

Molly however, did not seem half as repulsed as he was. She was smiling, joyfully, and waving erratically at the many people cheering for her outside the window. Her cheeks were red and flushed and she seemed as though she was rather happy to be in the spotlight.

Sherlock simply stared, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, expression entirely blank, utterly cold, detached, and unaffected by the many jovial faces behind the glass. They meant nothing, and he didn't care if they liked him or not.

He didn't care.

He didn't.

He didn't.

 _I, of all people, believe that you have a chance. You just need to get your bloody head out of your arse._

Sherlock shut his eyes, shook his head, and sighed.

 _"See,"_ Haymitch spoke up from behind him, and Sherlock turned, catching the hint of a smirk on his lips, delighted by Molly's actions, it seemed, "That's how you do it." The blonde man stood and pushed in his chair, yanking out his flask and downing several large gulps of whiskey. He then strode passed Sherlock, aiming to leave the train car, but not before slamming a hand down on Sherlock's shoulder, a grin marring his features gleefully. " _That's_ how you make people like you."

Sherlock glared at the man's back as Haymitch exited through the mechanical doors, pondering his words before glancing back over at Molly.

 _That's how you make people like you_.

 _Freak, weirdo, abomination._

 _Different._

 _People don't like me._

* * *

Upon exiting the train and stepping into the light of the Capitol's sun, Sherlock and Molly had been pounded by excited citizens and their generous words. Their shouts and hollering so loud that Sherlock had been tempted to throw his palms over his ears and growl at their stupidity. And yet, at the same time, though he had been disgusted earlier, he was now fascinated. Because he was hearing things – words – fall from their mouths that he had never heard before; words of praise, words wishing good fortune and admitting bewilderment. Words cheering not only for Molly, but also for him.

For _him_.

And as Effie and Haymitch guided them towards where their stylists were awaiting them, Sherlock began to feel far more clueless. Clueless because, now, he was actually out of his depth. He didn't know the people of the Capitol, or their mannerisms. He didn't know anything about protocol or training or the other tributes when it came to the Games. And the more he thought about it, the more lost he became. The more complex each and every detail of the situation became, the more stranded he felt. Because, for once in his life, Sherlock Holmes felt utterly, and hopelessly, helpless.


End file.
